


Something That's Nothing

by Amuly



Series: Marvel's 1872 [8]
Category: Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Western, Gothic, Horror, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 15:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4105954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony's had a suspicion for a long time. But he doesn't have any evidence, any <i>real</i> evidence. At least, not nothing that's not no evidence at all. </p><p>This mystery's going to do his head in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something That's Nothing

“When I first came to Rescue, it was nothing. Some pissant little homestead, two or three families gathered near a riverbed that would dry up sooner than later. But it was far enough from everything, from everyone. The low population was a selling point for me. I can always… I invent things, and I knew I could invent a town into being. I didn’t need population density to make an area habitable for myself. The river meant I was able to generate energy, and energy is all I need. I have money, I have a _lot_ of money, and we’re close enough to the pony express lines… My money is all mine. I didn’t- Don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I had a company, back east. The… I wanted to be away from… I wasn’t running from anything. This makes it sound like I was in hiding. I wasn’t in trouble, I wasn’t-“

“I’m going to start again.”

Steve moved away from the window. Tony watched him, tried to gauge his reaction. But the sheriff had a fairly impenetrable in poker face. And maybe that’s what was tripping Tony up: trying to tell what Steve was thinking, trying to adjust the way he told a story based on his reactions. Tony swallowed and watched Steve pace, one hand on the revolver at his hip.

“Take your time.” Steve’s voice was a rumble.

Outside, the night had crept over Rescue. The Stark gas lamps shone, steady and bold against the near-moonless night. Waning crescent. Two more nights and it’d be a new moon. Tony was no astronomer, but he kept an absent-minded track of these things. Kept absent-minded track of a lot of things. Tony picked up an astrolabe from his dresser and started fiddling with it. Put it down.

“I know just about as much as you,” Tony reminded Steve. “I just have… hunches. Same as you.”

“You haven’t been…” Steve gestured vaguely. “Inventing? Tinkering?”

“I’m always inventing. Always tinkering. It’s what I do.”

Steve nodded. Cast his eyes around Tony’s home, his mansion of technological wonders. Tony straightened his shoulders a little, preening as he imagined his home through Steve’s eyes. Even if now wasn’t the time.

“I had a company, back east. Made… a lot of money. Inventing things, manufacturing. Some of them weren’t the best things.” Tony licked his lips. “You were in the war.”

“Me and Sam,” Steve confirmed. He glanced at Tony. “You manufactured weapons.”

Tony winced. “Used to. It was my father’s business, and I… inertia kept it going. By the time the war rolled around I was phasing back. By the time the war was in full-swing I stopped entirely. Sold off the docile parts of the company, blocked the sale of any more of my weapons. Got the hell out of dodge before the government decided they still needed me to make weapons. Not that I thought they _would_ , but…”

“You had money and means to start over anywhere,” Steve observed. “You picked here because… no one knew you?”

“No one knew me,” Tony confirmed, “and there wasn’t a chance of a snowball in Florida of anyone showing up who recognized me. The river nearby meant I had power. Enough to run my inventions. The Pony Express line meant I could keep myself supplied with whatever I couldn’t get out here. Iron ore, that sort of thing.”

A noise outside. Steve’s hand twitched on his revolver. Tony took a step back, fingers fumbling for his inventions. He didn’t have any weapons here. He refused. He’d given all that up. Sworn never to pick it up again.

Tony’s hands ached for a good rifle.

Tony watched, lips dry, as Steve peered out the front window again. The air inside Tony’s home was stifling still. He’d shut up all the second story vents that allowed for airflow.

“Another light is out.”

Tony shivered. Steve turned back to him.

“Why are your lights going out, Tony?”

Tony shook his head. “I don’t… like I said, I know as much as you. I just have theories. Conjecture. Hunches.”

“Tell me about the lamps.”

“When I got here, there were three, maybe four families on homesteads,” Tony explained, rushing into his story again. “At first I did the same as them. Staked out my property. Built my home. I had plans, all up here.” Tony tapped at his temple. “Took some time, took some modifications. But I built this place before winter. Then I was cooped up, had nothing but time, so I…” he gestured around, hands flapping limply.

“So you planned. And you built.”

“I went to work.”

Steve nodded. “And the gas lamps?”

“The following summer,” Tony explained. “I just… they’re just lights! I plotted out where the other homesteaders were, made a topological map of the terrain…” Tony glanced at Steve. Tried to read him. “Topological map: that’s when you take-”

Steve shot him an irked look. “I was a Captain, Tony. I know about surveying terrain.”

Tony shook his head. “Sorry, sorry. I don’t always know what’s common sense and what’s…” he waved his hand vaguely. “Surveyed the area. Figured out how the town should be best laid out. Built myself an office, a blacksmith’s forge in the city, so people wouldn’t have to come all the way out here to get their horses shoed. And then I laid the gas lamp lines. They’re just…” Tony squinted. Rubbed at his chin. He should shave. It felt like he always had stubble, these days. “I thought maybe a gopher was getting into them. Moles. Prairie dogs, even. Chewing through the lines, short-circuiting them. But I can’t find any evidence for that. Can’t find any damage at all to the damned things.”

“The lines for the lamps are underground,” Steve thought aloud. “And you don’t see anything eating through them.”

Tony shook his head helplessly. “They worked fine for three years. Then all of a sudden, they start snuffing out. The first one, I thought, okay, normal wear, something problem ate through the line, something. But I dug that one up and it’s pristine. Like the damned day I put it in the ground. Next one goes out, same thing. And the thing is, Steve: they’re not always out. Some nights three are out, some nights none. But more and more, every day. I’ve been tracking them, and there’s a definite upward trend. It’s non-linear, too. At first I thought it was just a simple one-to-one ratio but the more data I get, the more lamps go out…” he trailed off. Squinted at Steve. No matter how smart this former Captain was, there was no way Sheriff Rogers knew the first thing about exponential graphs.

“It’s going faster, and more,” Tony finally explained in layman’s.

Steve nodded. Studied Tony. Then turned and looked out the window again. Studied the night.

“Did you hear what Barton said?”

Tony swallowed, throat clicking. “About Ms. Stacy?”

Steve shook his head. He turned back to Tony, expression the most kind it’d been all evening. “No. Before that.”

Tony shook his head. “He… Before? Did Barton… Did he _know-_ ”

Steve shook his head. “Nothing like that. A few weeks ago, Barton came to me. My office. Said he and Ms. Bishop had seen something. Out there.” Steve hesitated. Licked his lips. “More accurately: he said he’d seen nothing.”

“Nothing?” Tony frowned. “Then what-”

“But like the nothing was something,” Steve explained. Tried to. He squinted helplessly, waved his arms around a little. “They were spooked as I’ve ever seen them. And Barton, he knows his wilds. He’s been out there a long time. But that morning, with him saying there was some _nothing_ out there, some… malevolent emptiness.”

“Malevolent emptiness,” Tony repeated. Turned the concept over in his mind. “Not very scientific.”

Steve shrugged ruefully. “Not a scientist. That’s what I’ve got you for.”

Sighing, Tony trudged over to Steve. Wrapped his arms around the bigger man’s waist, snuffled his face against his neck, felt Steve’s warmth bleeding through his shirt. He was always so warm, like summertime on the plains. Tony shivered against that warmth.

“I don’t know what this is. I feel like I’m missing pieces.”

Against his head, Tony felt Steve nod. His hand came up to rub at Tony’s back: soft, reassuring lines. Straight lines, up and down. Like Tony’s gas lamps.

“What do you think we should do?” Tony whispered. Didn’t want word getting out. The night getting in. The nothing overhearing their plans.

Steve was quiet for a moment as he thought. Tony relaxed against his chest in the interim. It felt good not to be the one with the plan, for once. To trust someone enough to leave it up to them. And although Tony knew his tech, Tony knew how to build and create, Steve knew plans. He was a Captain through-and-through: no matter how far he had traveled to run from that.

Finally Steve spoke, words a rumble in his chest. “Now… Now, I need to call a town meeting.”

* * *

Ms. Maximoff's saloon was a cacophony of noise, all the townsfolk roaring and raving as they settled into place. Ms. Bishop and Mr. Barton were settled at a table in the center, Ms. Bishop arguing some point with Mr. Barton as he hung his head and dealed a deck of cards between them. Behind the counter, Mrs. Maximoff hurried to serve drinks, smile strained as she nodded and took orders. Her wife Mrs. Danvers was sitting at the end of the bar, watching Mrs. Maximoff’s every move, tight worry around her eyes. She didn’t have to smile fake for the customers like her wife did.

Deputy Wilson was at the bar nursing a drink when Steve and Tony entered. Steve touched Tony’s elbow once before heading for him, all smiles and friendly embraces between old friends. Rhodey was at his own table, sharing a drink with a Mr. Cage and Mrs. Jones. Their baby was sat on the table, a little one named Dani after the fourth member of the table, Mr. Rand. Tony swallowed as he watched the baby giggle and smile, not a care in the world. Not sensing what was coming for them, alone out here in the west. Rhodey smiled over at him and Tony shook his head. He wasn’t much for company just now.

Scattered around the saloon was most the rest of the town’s inhabitants. Ms. van Dyne sat at a table, flocked by her girls. Mr. Maximoff was hidden by the swinging doors, hat pulled over his head and arms around his skinny chest, like he was hoping no one would notice he was there. Tony licked his lips. It was enough of them, here. It was most everybody.

A few minutes later Steve whistled, calling things to attention. Tony sunk backwards, heading for a quiet wall of the saloon. Mrs. Maximoff darted out from behind the bar and took a table near her brother, wife trailing behind. Steve stepped away from the counter, and suddenly he was Sheriff Rogers again. He looked out on the crowd, eyes taking in his fellow townsfolk as they slowly fell to silence. Tony couldn’t help but admire the respect his simple presence could command.

“You all probably have some sense why we called this meeting,” Steve started. “And I’m grateful for every one of you who came out.”

Steve paused, walked a few steps. Looked up and, to Tony’s surprise, looked right at him. Like he was asking permission or something. Tony nodded, mouth dry. Steve nodded back.

“There’s something not right in the town. Strange goings-ons. You all have felt it for weeks, maybe even months. And you’ve ignored it. I have, too. But now an innocent young woman is dead, and we just can’t ignore it anymore. So: now is the time for talking. And planning. And determining if there’s a need for action, and what form that action might just take.”

Steve paused again, letting his words carry through the room, giving everyone a time to process them. After a long moment he spoke again.

“I’m going to ask Mr. Stark to go first. Share as much as he knows. Then we’ll go round-robin, orderly as we can, and see if we can’t make sense of this picture.” Lifting his hat, Steve scratched at his head with the same hand before replacing his Stetson. “I get the sense that we all have pieces to this thing, and sharing them might just help form us a picture of the situation. So. Mr. Stark.”

Wiping his hands on his trousers, Tony stepped forward. Waved, then thought better of it. Most the town was squinting at him unfriendly-like. Ms. van Dyne and her girls certainly weren’t looking at him with any amount of love. Tony swallowed and turned away from them. Mrs. Danvers gave him a cautious smile, and her wife. Rhodey was looking at him supportively. That should be enough.

Pausing only long enough more to clear his throat, Tony explained about his gas lamps. How they’d been going out, and how it wasn’t his fault. That latter part was the hardest to convince the townsfolk of. But Steve was right: they must all be sensing something was wrong in their world, because they accepted it sooner than Tony thought they would. Certainly with a sight less arguing than he had prepared for.

When he was done, Steve gave him a nod and took up control of the floor once more. “That’s piece number one. Anyone want to go next?”

Ms. van Dyne jumped up, tiny figure dwarfed by her swarm of girls around her, yet still managing to command the attention of the room. She explained about Ms. Stacy, about the circumstances of her death. She confirmed, reluctantly, that Ms. Stacy had been investigating the gas lamps. Thought there was something to it. Ms. van Dyne didn’t look at Tony once.

With a bashful air to him, Mr. Barton stood, hat in his hands, and explained what he and Ms. Bishop had seen, or hadn’t, one morning. Mrs. Danvers told a story of something that was nothing scratching at her house, trying to get in. Mrs. Jones explained how things had been happening to baby Dani: turning up places she couldn’t have gotten, fussing or, more often, going silent at times no baby should be. Tony shivered.

“The terrain is different.”

All heads swiveled to Mr. Maximoff. He was stood in the back of the room, near the doorway. Just in case he needed to make a quick exit. He looked up, almost seeming startled by the sudden attention. Tony was the first to press him.

“What do you mean, 'terrain is different'?”

Mr. Maximoff shrugged, gaze down so as not to meet anyone's in the saloon.

“I mean, when I go east. The terrain is different.”

Tony scoffed. “Of course the terrain is different: you're traveling two thousand miles. The terrain between Oklahoma and Arizona and Louisiana and Missouri and Georgia and Virginia and New York are all _different_ , Mr. Maximoff.”

At his sharp tone Mr. Maximoff finally looked up, eyes going straight through Tony's. Tony waited it out, waited to see if Mr. Maximoff would back down first. Mr. Maximoff wasn't as integrated into the community, was more of a loner than Tony. Hadn’t ingratiated himself to the people of Rescue like Tony had worked so hard at. But he was sharp, and he was fierce, and Tony was certain he wouldn't give way if he knew he was right.

“Different from before. From past runs.”

“Different how?” Tony pressed immediately.

“Different...” he mumbled something under his breath. Something in his old tongue. At the table in front of him, Wanda perked up. She asked him something in their language, and he replied back in kind, gestures heavy with frustration. Wanda fell silent, thinking for a moment. Then she said, in English:

“Like falling off a cliff.”

Mr. Maximoff nodded. He turned his attention to Tony once more. “When I come back, sometimes. It's like the rest of the plains...” He glanced at his twin, who nodded. He went on: “Fall away. Like Rescue is a cliff and the rest of the world... disappears.”

Steve stepped forward, brow furrowed. “You see this happen?”

Mr. Maximoff shook his head. “Not see. A feeling. A sensation.”

“It's a smell,” Mr. Barton mumbled. Ms. Bishop jabbed him in the side, but he shook his head and repeated himself. “Smell it, in the air. Moss growing under morning fog. Dead worms in the dirt.”

“Something's watching us,” Ms. Danvers asserted.

“It _is_ like the war,” Deputy Wilson whispered, almost low enough that it was just for Steve's ears. He shivered and pressed a hand to Deputy Wilson's elbow. Their eyes met, and an understanding passed between them. Tony scowled, but said nothing. They'd both seen the war. They knew the weight of what that meant. And Tony… Tony didn’t mention the war, if he could help it. Didn’t like people remember how the Stark name had contributed to that horror.

"All right." Steve rapped his knuckles twice on a table. All eyes focused on him. "We all agree there's a problem. And we have some consensus about the shape of that problem."

"No we don't," Tony argued. The look Steve shot him was enough to turn a normal man's veins to ice, and it certainly cooled Tony's. But he pressed on. "If we do have the shape of the problem, then, please: spell it out for me. I can be slow about these sorts of things. But I don't see any such shape. And I been looking just as hard as anybody."

"It's nothing!" Ms. Bishop piped up.

"Who let the kid in?" Tony asked the room at large.

"It is!"

Tony glared at her. "You going deaf like Barton?" Mr. Barton scowled and rubbed at his ear. It was an open secret anyways, his rapid hearing loss. "It's clearly something. _something_ killed Ms. Stacy, _something_ has been breaking my lamps-"

"I don't mean it's nothing," Ms. Bishop cut in. "I mean it's _the_ nothing. It's _a_ nothing. Out there. Waiting for us." She smacked Mr. Barton viciously on the arm. "Tell them!"

Tony raised his eyebrows at Me. Barton. "Well?"

Mr. Barton squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. All eyes were on him. He rubbed the back of his neck and slouched lower. "I don't..."

"Clint!" Ms. Bishop's eyes were wide and desperate.

"I don't know what we saw!" Clint finally shouted, arms spread helplessly in front of him. "We were out there, and all the sounds fell away-" he stopped long enough to sneer at Tony. "And not because of my damned bum ears. I know what that sounds like. Or doesn't.  And Ms. Bishop heard it too."

"Or didn't," Ms. Bishop pointed out.

"Quiet night isn't proof of much," Tony pointed out. He glanced over at Steve. "No matter how much bad feeling we get from it."

Steve was watching Tony, body poised for a fight and at the same time calm like… well, like he was going to fight. But like he knew he could win it. Not taking his eyes from Tony, Steve mused: “We all seem to be afraid of this nothing; we all seem to be getting a sense of the… the…”

“The void,” Tony mumbled. “It’s like we’re all scared of the void.” He hesitated, dropping his eyes from Steve’s. After a moment he offered up: “And a void is something. It’s a nothing that’s a something. Which is what you’re all saying, isn’t it? That there’s a nothing out there, a something-nothing, that’s out to get us.”

“We can call it the Void for now,” Steve agreed. “If it makes it easier to wrap our heads around. Makes the nothing something tangible.” Steve waited, and Tony realized he was waiting for _him_. He nodded his agreement.

“Alright then. That’s all I wanted from today: to get a handle on this. Next step is a line of attack. Keep your eyes and ears open, and stay safe. Don’t go wandering at night by yourselves. I don’t want to impose a curfew, but if more people wind up hurt or worse, I might have to. So keep your heads about you and we can avoid that.” Steve rapped his knuckles on the table again. “Meeting dismissed. Thank you folks mightily for your time.”

As the town filed out—or settled in for drinks, whatever their preference may be—Steve caught Tony’s elbow. Tony stopped, still as Steve waited for most of the townsfolk to take their leave. Finally, when they were alone enough, Steve rumbled in Tony’s ear:

“Can I ask you to make weapons again?”

Tony pressed his lips together. “I’ve made rifles and shotguns for the town. Ask anyone, I work on their guns.”

“You know what I mean.”

Tony stood still. Steve kept his hand on his elbow, waiting. After a long moment Tony shook his head. “I…”

“I’m not asking this of you lightly,” Steve promised him. “And I’m not even asking you right now. But when we find out, when we know… would you be able to?”

Tony was facing the interior of the saloon, Steve the doorway. Tony watched as Wanda poured her wife a glass of juice.

“I don’t even know what kind of weapons I could make to fight this. To attack the void.”

Steve pulled back from Tony, hand still on his elbow but far enough back that they could meet each other’s eyes. Steve smiled faintly. “Are you telling me you can’t?”

Something loosened in Tony’s chest. A ghost of a smile kissed at the corners of his mouth. “Well. I never said that.”

Steve leaned in to press a kiss to his temple. That knot of something inside Tony loosened even more. “That’s what I thought,” Steve mumbled into his hair.

Tony sat down at the saloon counter as Steve left him, heading back to the Sheriff’s office with Deputy Wilson. Mrs. Maximoff slid up behind him, quietly cleaning a glass as he stared after Steve, lost in his own thoughts.

“Well?” It was Mrs. Danvers, sat on her usual stool at the far corner of the bar. Tony turned to her. “Are you going to save us?”

Tony sighed and waved at Mrs. Maximoff, ordering his own glass of juice. “No one in this town needs saving.”

“You ever noticed that it’s called ‘Rescue’?” Mrs. Danvers pointed out.

Tony laughed as Mrs. Maximoff filled his glass. “Yeah, because that’s what you need when you wash up here. But us: we’ve all been washed up a good while.” Tony shook his head, fingers stroking the cool glass in front of him. “We’re all plenty saved, now.”

Mrs. Danvers hummed, but didn’t disagree with him. When Mrs. Maximoff finished pouring Mrs. Danvers nodded at him, holding up her glass. “Hey: to Rescue?”

Picking up his own, Tony nodded at her. “To Rescue.”

The juice was lukewarm on his tongue. The breeze outside fell to nothing. Tony’s eyes came to rest on the dual shotguns Mrs. Maximoff kept hanging above the bar.

But what sort of weapon did you make when you didn’t know what you were fighting? The sort of weapon that could hurt something that was nothing, he supposed. But he’d be damned if he knew what shape such a weapon might take.


End file.
